Trial by Fire (14 page)

Lily didn’t have a response to that. She repressed the image of her dresser drawer full of slogan-emblazoned T-shirts, especially the one that read I
’M VEGAN.
A
ND YES, THAT DOES MAKE ME BETTER THAN YOU.

“What a lively debate we’re having,” Alaric said wryly. He waved his hands at both of them, indicating that they should sit down. “Tristan, would you serve Lily some lentil stew?”

“She can’t have it, Sachem, there are potatoes in it,” Rowan said, taking his seat next to Caleb. “Potatoes are a nightshade. They are poison for her until she learns how to transmute their alkaloids into power. If she refuses to eat poultry—which is a neutral, nonreactive food for you, by the way,” he added, shooting Lily a withering look before continuing, “she may have cooked oats for energy. For protein I’ll figure something else out. Lentils without potatoes, maybe.”

“Problem solved. Amazing what we can accomplish in a morning,” Alaric said with the faintest of eye rolls.

Lily smiled hesitantly at Alaric. His dry sense of humor took some getting used to, but Lily could tell he was pleased that the conflict was solved. Alaric liked finding solutions to problems—even silly ones, like what Lily could and couldn’t eat.

Tristan returned with a wooden bowl of oatmeal for Lily. She smiled up at him in thanks, but her thoughts were still fixated on what Rowan had said. She’d always thought potatoes were so bland that they couldn’t possibly cause a reaction, only to find that an hour or so later, she was burning with fever. It bothered her that she had never noticed this connection before, but it bothered her even more that Rowan had.

“May I ask you something, Rowan?” she called over the fire when she couldn’t stand it any longer. He nodded. “My doctors did test after test, but they could never figure out what triggers my fevers. How do you know what I’m allergic to?”

“You’re not allergic to anything,” Rowan replied with a shrug. “You’re a crucible.”

“Okay, you keep calling me that,” Lily said, putting down her bowl, and addressing the group. “But what’s a crucible? I know what a crucible is in my world—it’s a container that’s used to heat things up. Are you calling me a crucible because my body runs hot and I heat things up?”

“You don’t just heat up substances,” Tristan said. “You change them inside your body.”

“And what do I change substance into?” Lily asked.

“All different kinds of energies and forces,” Rowan replied. “You can also take outside heat, which is a form of energy, and turn it into force.” He gestured to the fire.

“My ankle,” Lily said. She remembered the fingers of fire and how she was able to manipulate the blood, tissue, and bone on the smallest level—right down to the cells. It was impossible. “I turned the heat from that brew you made me drink into a force that rebuilt my ankle?”

“Along with the calcium and other elements we gave you in the brew,” Tristan amended. “You can change things—chemicals into energy, and energy into force—but you can’t create matter or energy out of nothing, which is why we gave you the brew.” He smiled at her. “Your thermodynamo law.”

“Thermodynamics,” Lily corrected absently.

“Your body is a place where matter and energy get transmuted. That’s why you’re called a crucible,” Rowan said, his dark eyes flicking up to catch hers. “Get it?”

“Yeah, I get it,” Lily whispered.

All those baffled doctors, all the allergy tests that came up inconclusive, all the fevers that didn’t come from any kind of infection, scrolled through Lily’s mind. They’d never found anything wrong with her because what was wrong with her was so unbelievable, no rational person would ever think to look for it. Lily’s hands were shaking. She clasped them together to steady them.

“I’m a witch.”

“Not yet,” Rowan said seriously. “That’s a title you have to earn.”

“God, you say that like it’s a good thing,” she said with a gasp. Her hands kept shaking, even though she was squeezing them together so hard she was practically wringing blood out of her fingertips. Lily felt a hand on her arm, and looked over at Alaric.

“I think that’s enough for now,” he said.

Lily stood up and nearly ran away from the campfire.

“Lily? The elders are here to see you,” said Rowan.

Lily had been hiding in her tent for the last half hour, trying to calm down. She paused and took a few steadying breaths, preparing herself to go out there. The last thing she wanted to do was lose it as she had at breakfast and run off crying like a little girl again. She could hear Rowan on the other side of the thin material of the tent, shifting from foot to foot as he waited for her to collect herself.

“Are you okay?” he finally asked.

“Yes,” she said, and pushed the flap of the tent open.

Rowan looked her over. “You’re feverish.”

Lily swiped the back of her hand across her forehead, and it came back glistening with sweat. “Great,” she said. Half her mouth tilted up in a wry smile. “Maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll have another seizure and wake up back home.”

A frown creased Rowan’s brow. “Come on,” he said sharply.

As they walked back to the campfire, he reached out and took her by the wrist. She tried to edge away but he persisted, lightly pressing on her pulse point with soft, sure fingers. She glanced over at Rowan and saw the willstone at his throat glittering subtly. Her fever ebbed out of her, like hot water swirling down a drain. Before she could ask Rowan what had happened, they’d reached the fire.

Several conversations, spoken in a language Lily couldn’t even begin to place, hushed at once. A dozen men and women sat in a circle, staring at Lily with wide eyes and blank faces. Some of them had graying hair and craggy faces, but they all seemed to be remarkably fit and strong. Lily wondered why they were called elders when none of them seemed all that old. There were certainly no frail or elderly people among the Outlander elders.

“Well—that’s
Lillian
,” said a wiry woman with a thick mane of salt-and-pepper hair. She had cinnamon-colored leather for skin, and a dried and spicy voice to match. “Kill her,” she said with a shrug, like she couldn’t believe no one had done it yet.

Half a dozen bows were drawn, creaking ominously to fulfill the woman’s order. Lily stared over the fire at a semicircle of arrows pointed at her face. Her jaw fell open and a whimper squeaked out.

“Wait!” Alaric shouted, his hands up in appeasement. “Yes. She is a Lillian, but not the Lillian we know from this world. Rowan. Explain.”

Lily realized that she had grabbed onto Rowan’s arm. He had stepped in front of her so quickly she hadn’t immediately noticed, and now he pulled her forward so she stood in front of him. Lily’s knees shook, and she leaned her back against his chest. A dozen arrows were still aimed at her face. Rowan slowly took a hold of the collar of her shirt in both hands and opened it so everyone could see her bare throat and chest.

“No willstone,” Rowan said. His voce rumbled against her back. The tips of half the arrows dropped to the ground hesitantly, then Rowan continued. “I brought the shaman to the Citadel almost two years ago. I didn’t know that Lillian trained with him, and I still don’t know how this is possible, but somehow Lillian has managed to spirit walk into another world, locate another version of herself, and bring her here.”

The fire popped and Lily felt the weight of everyone’s hate and fear pressing in on her. Her breath hitched in the back of her throat. Deep in the crowd, she saw Tristan’s worried face staring back at her and Caleb’s stern face right next to his. Rowan slowly shifted her behind him and out of the remaining line of fire.

“This version of Lillian is from a world so different from ours that she studies
science,
not witchcraft,” he said with disbelief. A murmur swept through the mob. “And she likes to be called Lily,” he finished, allowing a note of humor to enter his tone.

That strange language rose up again as the elders began to argue. Rowan’s head snapped around in reaction to what some in the crowd were saying, and as he listened, he became increasingly tense. He reached back for Lily, keeping her close to his body. As the infighting between the Outlanders escalated and braves began to stand and face off with each other, Lily could see Tristan and Caleb weaving their way through the crowd toward her and Rowan. Rowan suddenly held up his hands again, waving for everyone’s attention.

“Who here knows Lillian better than I do? And who here has more reason to want her dead?” Rowan announced loudly. The bickering ended abruptly. “I swear on my life this is not Lillian. If it was, I would have strangled her myself.”

The wiry woman stepped forward again. “Alright, Rowan, we believe that you believe. And since we knew your father, that’s good enough for most of us.” The wiry woman paused in a moment of reverent silence, and the crowd followed suit, some of them even bowing their heads. “But if what you’re saying is true,” she continued after a suitable amount of time, “what does it mean?”

“I don’t know yet,” Rowan said quietly, his eyes reaching back to meet Lily’s. “But the possibilities are literally infinite.” Rowan kept his eyes on Lily. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but whatever it was, it frightened him.

“She’d have to be trained first,” Alaric said into the long silence. “Where’s the shaman?”

“He hasn’t been seen in months,” answered a voice from the crowd.

“Is he dead?” another voice asked.

“Who would be daft enough kill a shaman and risk being haunted forever?” the wiry woman said derisively. “He’s probably out on the Ocean of Grass, smoking funny herbs and doing one of those vision quests.”

“Find him,” Alaric ordered. Two of Alaric’s specially painted braves nodded in obedience and left the group.

Distant yips and cries from the perimeter guards reached the group at the fire. Lily felt Rowan grab her by the arm as his eyes flew to the treetops, his knife glinting in his other hand. Her heart flew to her throat, and she scanned the trees, like Rowan, for Woven. The call “Citadel guards!” was heard and Rowan’s eyes dropped back down to the ground.

“Take Lily,” Alaric ordered. “Hide in the woods for five, six days if you can. We’ll try to get word to you before a week is past.” Alaric’s painted warriors flocked to his side, forming a circle around him. Caleb was among them, but Lily didn’t see Tristan anywhere. “If we don’t make contact in a week, try to smuggle her back into the city when things have died down,” he said hurriedly to Rowan. One of Alaric’s guards handed Rowan a pack. He opened it quickly and scanned the contents. Lily heard the wiz of arrows. “Run, Rowan!” Alaric shouted. “And keep her alive.”

Rowan nodded once and pulled Lily along beside him. His face was drawn and intense, his eyes skipping through the trees as he looked for the best route. Lily could hear the pounding of horse’s hooves, shouts, and screams. Rowan dragged her into a run, leading her away from the sounds of chaos.

“What do they want?”

“To capture as many of us as they can,” Rowan answered, his eyes still darting this way and that. “You can’t be seen. Here,” he rasped, and pulled Lily down behind the trunk of a large tree.

He pushed her between the thick roots and into a shadowy hollow that was barely large enough to conceal her, and covered the opening with his body. She saw his willstone flare, and his face relax in meditation. The dark wearhyde jacket and backpack that he wore seemed to blend with the shadows cast by the tall tree. He didn’t disappear, but he was so well camouflaged that he was nearly impossible to see.

Horses thundered past, carrying men heavily armed with crossbows, blades, and what she thought was a kind of gun. The men wore the same uniforms Lily had seen on the guards of the Citadel. She looked at Rowan’s calm face. His eyes were closed, his breathing regular. At any moment, she expected to hear the thwap of an arrow as it sank into his back, but the horses rode right past. Rowan opened his eyes and met Lily’s, the focus of his gaze swallowing all of her thoughts. She heard herself breathe, in and out, and didn’t dare move any more than that.

Rowan’s head flicked to the side, an ear cocked to listen behind him. Lily looked over his shoulder and saw a group of elderly men and women hurry past their hiding spot. They began to shout to each other. They tried to run, but they were too old to do more than shuffle through the leaf litter with frantic hopelessness. The mounted soldiers ran them down easily, trampling the unlucky ones. Lily heard the cries of pain and she tensed, her body straining to go to their aid. Rowan put his hands on her shoulders to stop her.

“No,” he whispered, his eyes pleading with her. “You can’t help them now.”

A young man rode forward, taking command. He jumped off his mount and stood over an old man who had been knocked down and couldn’t get back up to his feet. The young man was well-dressed and had pale skin and white-blond hair. He looked like an overgrown choirboy.

“But I’m not a scientist,” the old man said in a wavering voice. “I’m a history teacher.”

“You’ve been found guilty of teaching the history of science,” the baby-faced commander said in a whiny, unpleasant voice. Rowan stiffened when he heard it, like he recognized it, and turned slightly to look.

“But it’s not the same thing,” the old man pleaded. He rose up on his forearms, trying to explain himself better. The commander began to hit the old man over the head with a baton. He was smiling, his baby face leering obscenely.

“Don’t look.” Rowan put his hand over Lily’s mouth, his eyes locked with hers as they listened to the old man being beaten to death. It seemed to take hours. Lily found herself counting the blows, her lips silently tracing the words
six seven eight nine
against the palm of Rowan’s hand. When it was finally over, the rest of the elderly people were rounded up, tied together, and led away.

Rowan eased his hand away from Lily’s mouth, his other arm still holding her close to him. Lily looked over Rowan’s shoulder at the old man.

She’d never seen a dead body before. He was so still, and he looked smaller, barely the size of a child. Lily heard herself hiccup and realized that she was crying.